The Rebel Code

Chapter One

At first, the storm is so loud I don't even hear the sirens.
   

It's one of those wild summer storms that come howling in from the sea in the rainy season here in Port Carina. Well, technically we don't have an official "rainy season" in the Aquaculture Province, but that just means that our rainy season hits whenever it likes. And when it hits, it hits like a bomb. Every night, without fail, the sea breezes carry in some combination of lightning, house-shaking wind, and bucketing rain.

In my dreams I was in a parade, one of those festival parades we get so often on the boardwalk, and I was lost. On every side, people and trucks rose up like an ocean, blocking my path and making all sorts of crazy noise. Fireworks were going off, and incoherent music was blaring from speakers. I remember being terrified because I couldn't find John or Mo, and the crowd was only getting thicker. I thought, somewhere in the distance, I'd heard police sirens, but maybe that part was all my imagination and not the storm's influence.

I sit up in bed and untangle myself from the blankets I've kicked off to escape the humidity. Everything swims into focus, and there never was a parade. Instead, there's just wind rattling the windows and rain pounding on the roof. I rub my eyes and stare up at the ceiling, at the splatter of glow-in-the-dark stars I put there when I was ten and haven't taken down since. The room smells like rain. It's three in the morning. I feel my wrist vibrate, and my ProtoBand lights up with a reminder that I have school in a few hours and, if I want "optimum academic performance," I should be getting back to bed.

That's when I hear a low, steady whine that rises and falls against the wind. I listen, moving my face to the window and opening it just a crack. Yes. Under all the storm noise and shaking trees, the police sirens I'd heard are real. But they're coming from the other side of the street, and I can't get a good view.

Across the hall from my room is my older sister, Mo's. At three, the morning before school, she'll be sleeping, but I can be quiet. I shut my door, open hers, and tiptoe across her bedroom floor, which is remarkably less hazardous than mine. Mo's nineteen now, a whole adult, and she cleans for fun.

I see the lights before I get to the window, dancing in rain-swirled refraction on the bedroom wall. They're so bright at first that I have to squint hard through the glass. Then, my eyes adjust, and I can see the cars. There are five of them across the street, a few houses down. Five is a lot for this neighborhood. It's not like I haven't seen the police before—they make plenty of visits to the rougher areas of the harbor, where the fish factories are, and to bars in the height of the tourist season—but they don't come here. Our neighborhood is the closest to the academy, so it's mostly school families and employees. No one here would dare test the speed limit, let alone commit some serious crime that would require five police cars to handle.

But then I notice that I never needed to be quiet at all. Mo's bed is empty and unmade. Then I hear stirring downstairs and lowered voices, and I know something's happened.
Because no one in this neighborhood would ever crash their car. No one here would steal, or murder, or damage property. No one here would get drunk and vandalize someone else's house.

That only leaves one crime worthy of an entire police department.

I run down the stairs, forgetting to be quiet, and burst into the living room. As I suspected, Mo and John are both awake and staring out the window at the ominous light show, their faces lit at odd angles by the red and blue patterns. They both turn when they see me at the base of the stairs, probably looking like a frightened rabbit in the middle of a road.

"It's across the street," I blurt out.

John nods, his expression serious. "It's across the street."

"But who is it?"

"They're at Mike Bosman's place."

Mike Bosman. It's a name I don't hear often, but I know it. Mr. Bosman is the name printed on the door across from the gymnasium, our resident physical therapist who handles most of the sports-related injuries. I remember going to him when I sprained my ankle during a fitness test. He's a short, round guy with glasses and a goofy way of talking. He keeps a dozen different colors of athletic tape in his office so kids with sprains can match their outfits. He came to our homeroom once to give a lecture on avoiding injury, and brought a model skeleton in a top hat. He even used to come to our house, since John teaches physical education.

"We should go outside," says John quickly. "All the neighbors are having a look. Act confused and curious."

The last thing I want to do is go outside in the pouring rain and watch whatever they're doing to Mr. Bosman's house, but John's right. It would be strange if we were the only family who didn't go out to see it. Reluctantly, I grab my green raincoat off its hook on the wall and step out into the downpour. I feel Mo's hand touch my shoulder.

Next door, I see Coach Mitch and his family watching from under umbrellas. He even has binoculars to get a better look at the spectacle. I know it's only natural for people to be curious when this kind of thing happens, but I feel a pang of annoyance. Mr. Bosman was a person, a friend, and now he's an evening's entertainment.

"He's not there," says Mo. "They're taking stuff out of the house, but I don't see him."

An officer in a bulky rain poncho comes over to where the small semicircle of neighbors has formed and starts talking, waving his hands to accentuate points I can't even hear over the rain. But then he takes out a scanner and people hold out their wrists.

"Get your ProtoBand ready," says John to Mo. "They're taking ID."

I don't have an official ID on my ProtoBand since I'm not eighteen yet. I watch the officer scan methodically and double-check data. I don't know that there's any point to this, but it must be protocol. When the officer shouts again, I'm close enough to hear.

"We've got everything under control," he says, shaking rain off his sleeves. "It's best if you folks go back inside now. We're just doing one last sweep of the house to clear out any freeboot contraband."

Freeboot. Even in all the thunder and lightning, everything seems to go silent as the word hangs in the air. Freeboot. Freeboot contraband. Words I never expected to use in the same breath as the name of one of my teachers.

"Mo," I whisper.

"Shh," she hisses. "I know."

I don't even know what I was going to say to her. I just felt like I had to say something.

"Has Bosman already been arrested?" asks Coach Mitch.

"Yes," replies the officer. "Rest assured that the threat has been eliminated. This is just cleanup."

"Thank you, sir."

The rest of the neighbors murmur their gratitude, and I feel John herding me back into the house. I know I should go, but I can't help lingering a little bit longer, watching the officers move crates and boxes and black shapes out of the house. Mr. Bosman's computers, no doubt. I never would have guessed that he had them. Mr. Bosman was the last person I would have picked to be a freeboot in our school. He wasn't a genius. He was just a nice guy who knew a lot of fun facts about bones.

John opens the door, and the rain noise is gone. I'm standing there, dripping on our carpet, and it all hits at once. The realization that there are cops in our town, on our street, and they've definitely just arrested one of the coolest teachers I ever had for being a human supercomputer.